


Il Mio Fiore di Tremito la Spada di Noir

by Alithea



Category: Noir - Fandom
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-29
Updated: 2010-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alithea/pseuds/Alithea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Intoccabile reflects on a shared past with a member of Noir. Takes place during episodes eight and nine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Il Mio Fiore di Tremito la Spada di Noir

Is it you?

It is you.

I know it is, even in the dark. Even as the moon rises full across the room to cast its light upon your face. Through the background noise of the gunfire and men moving in the dark to defend this house, this compound, I know it is you. I can hear you... trembling.

Will you always tremble when I am near?

I have to wonder.

Are you angry with me for destroying your client? Traitors can not be tolerated. Traitors are rife with fear and sell out information so that they do not have to face death, but treachery leads one to that ultimate end, especially if it is done to my family. And you... you were the one who killed Don Rusio. You are Noir?

Why does Noir want a scrap of ancient paper? What does it mean to you?

I want to ask you these things personally, knowing full well that I will probably remain silent. It does not matter, the reason why, all that matters is that I kill you in the end. My family's honor can not be sullied by even your black hands.

The light is growing brighter. It was not wise of you to try and come here on a full moon. It was not wise of you, of all people, to step so blindly into this trap.

Are you not going to fire that gun of yours? Are you not here to kill me?

Yes, it is very clear, and the light is nearly to your face. I will be able to see you soon if you do not move. You had your chance to fire your gun. You should have shot me the second you saw me. Now I know that it is you. Now you may have to be killed in an undignified manner that is beneath your station in life. Shoot me, as I stand here calmly and without fear. I have no fear, not of dying, and certainly not of you.

The footsteps of my men are so close now that at any second they will burst through the door. And I see you are ready to run. And you run just before I can see your face. You scuttle off into the darkness to regroup and find yourself. My dear will you ever find out who you are? Will you ever accept it? And still, you tremble, as you run from me, you tremble.

I smirk mirthlessly as my men enter the room and ask if I have seen your face. I tell them I have not, because I want to give you time. I want you to worry and fear. I want you to tremble with the thought of my name, of what you can not seem to do, and what you must inevitably learn to do if you want to go on, if you want to live.

I have missed you so, daughter of Corsica, my Mireille Bouquet. I have missed making you tremble.

Why are you after me?

Why would you dare?

When you heard my name mentioned, because my name must have been mentioned, why did you continue?

After our last meeting I thought you would never come back to me again, though I hoped. That contract must be very important to you. Will your need to complete your task give you courage? Will you learn not to tremble?

My men grieve the loss of their comrade and I tell them to make arrangements so that he may be buried properly with his ancestors in Sicily. I will accompany them there. We shall end our past in that place where we met, but for the second time.

Our first meeting was so brief and you insulted my gift with your cowardice. You soiled the meaning of that flower crown by fearing the cliff's edge, by fearing my blade, and my intentions. I felt so betrayed by you by the time you left, but I kept that lock of hair I cut off. I had to because somewhere in my twelve year old frame of mind I believed we would meet again and that the next time you would not be so afraid. I wanted to spend more time with you young daughter of Corsica. I wanted to lavish you with lessons and teach you how not to fear.

When I heard of your parents' deaths sometime later I did not fear, I never fear. I knew you would have survived despite what so many of the old men around me believed.

Imagine my pure delight upon seeing you so many years later standing by the side of your uncle at the Shrine of Riveo. I was there with my father and grandfather. The Gleone family was having some troubles then. There was a traitor among us and the best efforts to discover the traitor were to no avail. My grandfather, Don Salvatorre, had the great insight to hire outsiders to help investigate, and the one he called upon was your uncle. Of course your uncle was hired for much more than that single investigation. Of course there was work that needed to be done that could not be done by the hand of a Gleone.

How wonderful it was to discover that he had taken in a student. Young and virile, lean, and sleek, you looked so very different from the young girl who trembled at the cliff's side. There was bitterness to you, a rage, and I suppose it would be only appropriate for you after your parents' deaths.

The introductions were brief at best, as you and your uncle were presented, not as lost members of Corsica, but as investors. It would not do for anyone to know why you were really there. I knew only because my grandfather told me. He trusted me completely. He trusted me more than his own sons, because of what I had become, who I was.

I am Intoccabile. I am the one who lives as none should, fearless and cold, but faithful. By the time I was twelve I would have killed my own mother if the family had ordered it of me. I would have squeezed the life out of my dearest siblings. The family's honor and power were all that mattered, because that was all that lasted.

I remember you reaching out to shake my hand. I remember how it quivered in my grasp, and how I was curious that such a shaking leaf could ever be an assassin. I wondered if perhaps you remembered me as the strength in your arm returned to you when you shook the hand of my father, and firmly.

As the men began to talk about things you and I were asked to stand aside. You seemed insulted by that, but had the grace to obey. That you never seem to lose Mireille, you always want to do things in an elegant and clean manner. You do not like a mess.

I picked a flower from the grass, a yellow wild flower, and held it out to you.

In my best French, which was not as clean as it is now, I said, "For the daughter of Corsica, a gift."

Can I ever forget that shocked expression on your paled and pretty face, the way your blue, blue eyes went wide as your hand reached out to shakily accept, because you did not wish to insult me?

"You remember me then?" The tenor of your voice shook with the rest of you as you poorly attempted Italian. "It was only that one time."

I smirked, I must have because it was so amusing to hear, but I replied, "You were trembling then as well."

The men finished their talk and we went back up to the house. My father's house near the cliff was as you remembered it, I had heard you mention to your uncle. You were placed in the same wing of the house as me. I was very pleased by that.

Mireille, I found you very appealing in that black skirt and red sleeveless turtleneck blouse. I still do, for in the moonlight I could see you wear it still. You did not look the part you were supposed to play, but then neither did your uncle. He had taught you very well how to seem unsuspecting.

The next morning I skipped breakfast and went out walking. I could hear gunfire in the distance, from a field just passed a small range of trees that bordered the property of the house. I went toward the sound and watched from a distance as you practiced shooting. Even then, Mireille, you were a good shot, perhaps not great, but good. It was interesting to watch your ritual.

Did you imagine that the targets you were firing at were the ones who had killed your parents?

I never knew, but then I could not seem to ask.

I strolled up a few paces behind you and you very quickly turned to take aim at me, only to suddenly drop your guard and nod at me in apology. After a moment of silence you resumed your practice and I used the moment to take one of the throwing knives I kept in a garter around my ankle out. I waited for you to fire and then I threw it, the sound of it just barely grazing your ear hitting the target as your bullet missed. You turned to me astonished.

"The guns," I began this time in English because I spoke it just a little better than French, and because I had over heard you speaking to your uncle that way, "I do not like them so much. They are not as personal as a knife."

You blinked back your shock and then said, "I can not afford to be come personal."

"This is true, but you know if you can kill someone that you love, you can kill anyone."

You looked very angry at me, but you said nothing. You merely started to walk away, and I decided that it was time to test your fearlessness. As you stepped past me I grabbed you from behind, unsheathed, and held my dagger to your throat. You remembered it, I could tell, and you tried not to quake, but you did ever so gently against my body. I could have claimed you right there. I wanted to, you smelled so sweet.

"Are you still afraid?" I whispered to you gently.

You relaxed into my grip then. "No."

Liar, I wanted to say. I could feel your dread pulsing through your body, but I let the insult slide.

"Do you trust me to kill you without a second thought?"

"Yes."

Your voice was so much calmer then, it was nice to hear that in your voice. That calm, Mireille, you use it to hide your rage. I knew you wanted to fight against me like a caged animal. I knew you longed to use your training and fight me. You wanted it, but you let it sit beneath your skin because you were afraid.

I released you and you staggered back to the house.

I do not know what you and your uncle did the rest of that day, but when you came back you seemed...stronger. I wish I had asked you who you had killed. I wish I had known how many you had already killed under your uncle's stern tutelage, and when you first held a gun. I myself spent the afternoon observing my father. His patterns were very strict except in a few occasions, but his patterns during that time seemed strangely off.

There was a grand dinner held that evening with much laughter around the table. Many stories sprang from memory, and I watched you as you listened, as you smiled, and as you would catch my glance from across the table only to turn swiftly away from it. After some dessert and wine the men retreated to the confines of my father's den to talk. You stepped outside. You walked out into the property to that place where we first met. You stood on the stone porch to take in the nightly scenery, the full moon casting its stolen light upon the world.

"The moonlight reveals all those who hide," I whispered from behind you.

You turned and stared at me, your eyes flashed with distrust, anger, and that ever present fear. You pushed back your golden hair from your shoulders and waited patiently.

"Do you have something to say to me Mireille Bouquet?"

"What do you want from me?"

"This."

I stepped up closer to you and pulled you into to me, taking your lips quickly with a long kiss, that you, though at first reluctant seemed to quickly accept before pushing me away.

"It's like the kiss of death," you whispered frantically, breath heavy.

You wanted me. I could tell. You wanted to hide, but you felt the attraction from the moment we were reintroduced. You wanted to know how you too could be a cold killer and yet, like me, love and laugh. I think, you do not find me to be someone who loves any longer, but you are wrong, because I live as no one else dare. I am without fear or mercy, but I can feel warmth in my heart. I can feel that and so much more while I take your life.

In the end, on that night, you were fearful.

The days followed and soon you had been there a week. Your uncle seemed to have an idea about who the traitor was, but I had long since made that discovery. The problem was how to gather the evidence, and how then to properly teach the traitor a lesson. To show the utmost forgiveness in my vengeance against the man who dared to betray my family.

And then of course there were my thoughts of you.

We did not talk much. There is in silence an unspoken rapport in which language barriers are destroyed. As an apprentice assassin you were becoming quite adept at reading people and inserting dialogue where none existed. I too, having been raised in a family of the Cosa Nostra, understood the depth of silence. At the time I was much better at it than you were, and, I think, I still am. I spent every morning with you as you practiced shooting and was impressed by your growing skill. Your style was very unique. I could imagine you being a lone assassin moving with stealth and grace through the shadows towards your prey. It was enticing the way you moved.

Of course after dinner when the men would seek solitude in the den to discuss their business you and I would walk the grounds. We would stop in the shadows where I would leave you breathless with kisses and hungry with fear. Sometimes you would push me away and mutter that my advances made you feel sick. But most of the time you would give way to your instincts, to what you wanted.

What was your greatest fear at that time? What was it that would make you push me away? Was it because you knew, though I wanted you, I would not think twice about killing you? Was it the fear of loving another woman? What your uncle would think? How intimacy would affect your ability to carry out your job?

I think it was all of those things. You feared yourself more than anything else in the world. You play well at confidence, but you would rather keep people at a distance, that is why you like the gun.

It was two days before you departed that I had gathered enough evidence to condemn the traitor to my family. I sent it to my grandfather who was sorely disappointed, but did not have the heart to act. He could not shoulder the burden of killing his son. I waited for his order. I knew it would come. Traitors could not be allowed to live even if they were family, especially so.

I bowed my head solemnly when he gave the order.

"If you do this thing, Silvana," he said, his voice overwhelmed with emotion, "You can never again leave Sicily until the time comes when I call for you."

"I understand."

And I did...Fully and completely I accepted this order. I carried it out to the best of my abilities by luring my father to the shine. I remember how surprised he was, how utterly full of despair he sounded as he pleaded with me, but he knew, even then, that it was useless to plead with me.

"Your disloyalty has caused much blood to spill," I whispered to him as he stood bound before me. "Only blood can wash away the blood that has already been spilt. I love you... father."

I took my dagger and drew it into his flesh as he whispered his repentance and his love for me. Those that were witness to the sight fell to their knees and spoke aloud for the first time the name which the family had already given to me, Intoccabile. I was adored for my deed, and feared because I had committed an act that no one else could do with a clear conscience. But it was my love for him that allowed me to kill him. It was my love that kept me from fearing any retribution, my love of my family and what our name means.

Did you know what I had done when you heard the news? Did the servants whisper about the act in the halls as you passed them by? I will never know. All I do know is that the sight of me made you tremble even more after that.

The next day was the funeral. All attended in black and that night... That night is when I knew you were deserving of your lineage, deep inside you were a true daughter of a strong family. That night is when you proved you could be brave, if only briefly, if only for a moment.

The knock on the door to my room was almost expected. You stood on the other side questioning me with your eyes, and I answered you with silence. You took a deep breath and stepped inside. I shut the door and your lips were upon me. It was nice. You were so soft then, you may still be. Your hands were not truly those of an accomplished assassin yet, though there were the beginning signs of the trade smoldering about you. The scent of gunpowder in your hair, a callus on you palm, and the strength of your body as you tried to control the encounter. You wanted to lead me, but I would not let you.

I turned the tables quickly, the little play of desperate kisses and searching hands at an end as you trembled beneath me on the softness of my bed. I stared so deeply into your eyes I almost thought I could read your mind. And you stopped for a moment, that was fleeting at best, as you stared back at me with a mixture of hatred and want so compelling I could hardly control myself. You stopped trembling. I kissed you then in that moment without fear, the cool of your lips betraying you as they quivered against my own.

How does one describe such moments? Is all the detail necessary?

Your skin was smooth, body toned and reacted against my touch in ways I had only imagined it would. You tasted sweet against my tongue as I buried my head between your thighs, and your voice was a song in my ear as you tried in desperation to control the gasps of what you must have considered a forbidden pleasure as they spilled from your lips. The voracity in which you allowed me to stake my claim and the desperation with which you begged to return the gesture brought a smile to my face. And your skill with me was a pleasant surprise, your manicured fingers sliding up through me, your lovely tongue taking me away from myself as I refused any request to give a sound of what I felt. No need for sound when our bodies could speak plainly enough of what they wanted, what they craved. And you were so full of despair because of it. You cried when it was finished.

They wounded me, those tears, because I knew what they were for. I knew why they were shed. How could you have insulted this gift I had given you with fear, with dread, and regret?

In the morning I was awake before you and when you woke I looked at you very sternly. You seemed to cower though I am sure that is not what you actually did.

"It will never happen again," you whispered harshly.

Such a bold promise I wonder if it was really meant for me to hear. Did you mean what you said? Was it a promise never to lose control to passion? Was it a promise never to love? I wish I knew.

I was indignant. I had once again given you a flower crown, and you had again insulted the beauty of it by giving way to your weakness. I stepped towards you. I sat on the bed and pulled you toward me though you struggled. I forced your lips to mine and I chuckled when you ripped away from me.

"As long as you fear...you will never win, Mireille Bouquet, as long as you tremble."

You did not run away. I had expected you to run out of the room and away from me, but you seemed desperate to make a point. You approached me instead, a cold fire in your eyes that you must have learned from all those years of bitterness over your loss, and then you...slapped me.

"This never happened," you said solidly and walked out of the door, but you shook. I could see it when you grabbed the door knob.

I think most would have been taken by surprise that I did not return violence towards you. That I did not give chase and give you a little lesson in manners. But there was no point in fighting, I had won and I always will. You can not win against me Mireille, and you know it. You feel it in the deepest part of your soul. That part of you that knows you wanted more of me that night, and into morning, perhaps even the future. That part of you that had brought you to my door in the middle of the night.

We did not say goodbye. You and your uncle left in a great hurry, and I wondered if I would see you again. Somehow in my wondering I knew it would be so, hoped it would be so. I cherished the moment when you would come back to me. I wanted to see if you would still tremble...and you did. You still feel the same about me, though you will call it by a different name now.

I took the contract to a priest and he told me some very interesting things about it, but it is not enough to know why you would want it so badly. I will arrange to meet you once you arrive here. I know exactly where you will go. I know why you will go there and the memories that will come back to you and haunt your purpose. I will let my men handle your little partner when the time is right. They have some forgiveness they wish to visit upon her, as I have much to bestow upon you.

It is strange to me that you should have a partner. It is odd considering the way you were, the way I perceive you to feel about closeness. Partners do not play an exacting role in the kind of life you were training for. She must either have something you want, or perhaps you have developed a fondness for her. Though that too seems out of character for you, but then it has been a long time since I have been able to really see you.

I look forward to meeting you once again, in the daylight. To see the sun shine down on your blonde locks and have your blue eyes visit me with fear, with something familiar and perhaps new. I want to speak to you in silence and phrases from the past. I want to remind you of what we had, though brief, though you regret it, and you must regret it still. I want to feel your lips tremble beneath mine, as you taste death upon them once more. To you, Mireille Bouquet, I wish to bestow the full breadth of my love, my forgiveness, and my revenge for betraying the gifts I had given to you.

For Corsica's finest daughter I offer you this prize, this meaningless contract. I offer you this chance to redeem your family's name and your own honor. I offer you this moment to show me how fearless you truly can be.

End.


End file.
